


Meet Me on the Rooftop

by starsandamorphinetoast



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:41:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandamorphinetoast/pseuds/starsandamorphinetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras is alive and he isn't very happy about it.  Jean Valjean knows everything.  There is so much jealousy... Basically, Marius saves Enjolras and they are both very much in love with each other but neither knows how the other feels.  Also, Enjolras has all these feels for Grantaire, mostly guilt, but you'll have to read it to find out about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapitre Un

Enjolras sat in the unnecessarily decorated room coated in posh furnishings with a feeling of dread rising in his throat like bile. He wasn’t supposed to be there. There wasn’t any reason why he ought to be looking through a window at Paris in all it’s glory, the facade of glory. It was all painted over, as if someone saw something as hideous as poverty and went over it with dark, beautiful, wide brushstrokes, but it did nothing for someone who knew what was underneath. 

He hadn’t even noticed Marius entering until he felt the hand on his shoulder. He flinched, and Marius backed away, the hand that wasn’t in the confines of a sling going up. “It’s me. It’s okay.” He soothed, taking a seat next him on the bed. “How do you feel? It’s been a couple days now. Is your head any better? Your arm?” 

Enjolras didn’t respond for a moment, and when he did, it was nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. The lighting in the room was dim, but it didn’t keep him from seeing the worry etched into Marius’ face. Pity was one thing he wouldn’t tolerate. “I’ll be fine.” He forced, voice strained. 

Two days had passed since the last of the boys were shot down like dogs in the street. Two days had passed since Marius dragged him out of the pile of dead schoolboys and hid with him in the corner of an abandoned and trashed cafe, waiting for someone, anyone, to come along and save them. Enjolras had barely been alive, and presumed to be dead by the murderers, but Marius knew he’d heard the softest of whimpers. And that was him; unconscious and battered, not waking up until in the carriage of Jean Valjean, their saviour, who returned for the boy he would have his daughter marry, and the boy that Marius would not leave without.

Marius kept his eyes on the floor. “It’s not your fault, Enjolras.” He muttered. “Cosette figured you didn’t think it was, but I know you well enough to know you blame yourself.”

“If I blame myself, it is because I am to blame.” He hissed, with teeth clenched closed almost as tightly as his eyes. He was the one who kindled the flame in their hearts. He was the revolutionary who turned all of those would-be philosophers and doctors and lawyers into rebels to be executed publicly. 

Marius sighed and shook his head. “You are mistaken. So rarely does anyone tell you that, but I tell you now. You are wrong. They wouldn’t have been there had they not believed in the cause.”

He had no response. What had it been for? They had failed. Everyone was dead, and nothing had changed. He had marched them to the barricade, singing loudly of justice and freedom. They got their freedom in death, but there was never any justice. This had not been what they’d fought for. “Grantaire…”

“We can not dwell on the dead, Enjolras. It doesn’t do you well to think of what might have been.” He insisted. He wished he was as bold as Enjolras had been before the revolution. Before this all happened, he was so brave. He had the air about him that stunned people within a certain radius of him. He had the the ability to touch, to embrace, to comfort, to hold, and to just do it because it needed to be done. Marius sat there, knowing what Enjolras needed, but contemplating it and determining and searching for an opening. He hesitantly put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Grantaire cared for the cause.”

“What cause?” Enjolras whispered, his calm collectedness draining from him and being replaced with regret. He slumped against Marius and let out a choked breath. “We’ve changed nothing. We’ve made no point. We’ve done nothing at all.”

Pulling him closer to him and leaning his chin on Enjolras’ head, he let out a small breath. “That isn’t true. We have made a difference. You can’t see it yet, but it’s there. I hear the women talking in the streets about how brave we all were. I’ve heard Valjean speak of the flame the beginnings of this has left burning in the hearts of the people.”  
He shook his head and pressed his face against Marius’ shoulder. His pride was gone, as was his reluctance to intimacy. They were friends, yes, but with the walls around his heart crumbling, this became intimate. “If they cared, why didn’t they come? Why didn’t the people come to the barricade? If they had, they might all still be alive. If they come now, they will find themselves alone and untrained, and be shot down like we were. We were as untrained as they, without realising. We were nothing, Marius. We were naive.”

Marius blushed at the closeness. Enjolras had been this friendly only with Grantaire in the past, but it seemed he was left now in dire need of it. When things had gotten to be hard for Enjolras, his speeches stirring rebellion in the hearts of les ABC amis, when questions were for him, as was responsibility, he’d retreated from the cafe with Grantaire. Marius knew not where they went, but he’d heard rumours that they’d climbed to the roof and laid there, Enjolras’ head in Grantaire’s lap and Grantaire’s fingers tangling and dancing through his hair to soothe him. Of course, nobody was to know about this image-dooming fact, but naturally, everyone did. 

It was not that he was seen as being indulgent. It is assumed that Grantaire and he weren’t sexually involved. It was simply a need to be held and taken care of, when it was he that the boys relied on to care for them. Enjolras hadn’t had much of a home life, being passed from relative to relative as a child following the death of both of his parents at the hand of pneumonia. Nobody but one aunt had ever cared for him the way he needed to be cared for, and he was taken from her at age nine. She combed her fingers through his hair as she held him and told him all would be fine.

And there laid one reason for his close relationship with Grantaire. 

Marius had been left only able to feel jealousy, but he knew that was selfish of him, and never vocalized it. When it rained, and the roof was bound to be empty, Marius would climb up and sit, imagining what whispers had be whispered there before, from one beautiful young man to another, and wishing that he was anything but awkward and without the grace so wonderfully held in the curls, cheekbones, jawlines, and near porcelain skin of Enjolras. 

“You’ve always been more than that.” He whispered into his curls. “You’ve always been special, and it’s always been a burden for you. The son of revolution. The king of the martyrs. But you’re more than that too.” He wished he could properly express what he meant, but he had no way with words. It all came out sounding like riddles with no answer, like a joke without a point. “What I mean to say is that you’re special to me. This isn’t your fault. You weren’t naive; you were amazing, and I am amazed. I can’t begin to tell you how humbled I am by your very presence, and yet compelled by it.” He felt Enjolras sinking lower, wilting and shriveling with each word. He felt strange, and like he was doing something forbidden by saying those things aloud. Of course they were friends, and it was friendly, but it was suggestive of something more than that. It sounded as though he were reciting the words of a love letter, and he may as well have been. He didn’t mean to do it, but it simply came out. 

He slowly removed himself from Enjolras’ form, lying him back down in his bed. “Rest. Your head must be hurting. I’ll send Valjean to check on you in an hour or so.” Marius muttered before quickly retreating from the room and sinking to the floor past the now closed door and pulling his knees to his chest. Why had he been so forward? The speech had obviously bothered Enjolras, who was undoubtedly thinking of Grantaire in his recent demise. How could he have been so damn selfish? It wasn’t as if he’d meant to disclose his feelings, and he hadn’t done so explicitly, but Enjolras was bright. He’d have been able to deduce. 

He had Cosette now anyway. He didn’t need to have these feelings for Enjolras when he could simply be with her. She was completely in love with him as well.


	2. Chapitre Deux

Enjolras laid there with pain, not in his head as Marius had assumed, but in his heart. Every time Marius said those things, it brought hope into his heart. But he knew his friend was head over heels in love with Cosette. He was just being friendly to him; nothing more. He remembered when Marius had come in that night before the revolution, starry eyed and quiet before bursting into song about this girl he’d seen, and he remembered the flame of jealousy licking at his chest that he’d tried to hide. Grantaire had seen it though, and when Enjolras met his eyes while Marius was singing, he looked positively heart-broken. Enjolras quickly tried to correct himself by singing of the revolution, accusing Marius of being naive, trying to be inspiring, but it was too late. Grantaire had already seen the way he looked at Marius. That was the night before the revolution began, and Grantaire never held him again. He had intended to see him on the roof that night, but when he climbed up, he was alone. He didn’t see Grantaire again until the next day at the tomb of Lamarque. 

When the soldiers came into the barricade, shooting everyone down, Grantaire had pulled him up the stairs and towards the corner of the upper room. He held his hand tightly, shaking in fear, and Enjolras gripped it back. “It’s alright.” He mumbled as he heard footsteps approaching them. “It’s okay. We'll be fine, Grantaire. Don't be upset. We're okay." He was lying. They were goners. They were practically already dead. 

Grantaire looked at him with tears in his eyes and whispered, “I love you, Apollo.” 

Enjolras stared at him, shocked that he’d said the words that he’d already known to be truth. He didn't think he'd ever say it aloud. He said nothing in response. 

“Please...please just say it.” he begged, one of the tears rolling down his cheek. He knew that he didn't love him. He knew that. But this was the end. These were the last moments of their lives and he needed to hear it. 

Enjolras understood. "I love you, Grantaire." He shouted fearfully over the noise of excitable soldiers bursting into the room. This was the first time he'd ever said those words to anyone, and even if he wasn't in love with him, he was glad it was Grantaire. A shot rang through the air and Enjolras felt a tug at his hand that could indicate only that Grantaire was falling, dead. He should have run, jumped out the window, saved himself, but he held his arms out in surrender, still gripping his friend's hand. "Shoot me! Kill me! I have nothing!" And they shot. And they hit his arm and he fell out the window, hitting his head on the windowsill as he fell onto the roof, but this time he was alone. He was practically hanging on the flagpole, his coat like the red flag of the revolution.

He wasn't dead, but he should have been. He'd knocked himself out when he hit his head, though he'd have given anything for that soldier to have better aim. 

He fell asleep and didn't wake again until Valjean came in and checked on him. He thanked him for saving him, which he responded to with modesty before leaving. 

 

Marius spent the evening with Cosette, smiling and pretending and hiding. Enjolras wasn't well enough to leave the guest room they had placed him in, so Marius planned to simply avoid him for as long as he could. He walked with her in the street watching the people moving around them, holding her hand and listening to her speak. 

He didn’t notice that he had frozen in his place. She tugged on his hand and called to him and he finally looked up from the sight of a street drain stained crimson with the blood of his friends. “What is it?” She asked, worry drawn on her face.   
Marius tried to erase the horror from his and forced a smile. “It’s nothing, Cosette.” He said softly. “What is it you were saying?” 

She hesitatingly started them walking again and continued her talking about a new dress she was sewing, or whatever it was she was talking about. It didn’t make a difference. What it was was a necessary distraction for him.

 

He spent his morning with her and her father, eating lunch and then on into the evening again, pushing his way through. Valjean brought meals to Enjolras and offered to take his tea with him, but Enjolras insisted he was fine eating alone. After a while, Jean sent Cosette up to check on him, as Marius was absent and they didn’t know where he was.

Enjolras looked up from the book that he was only half reading when there was a knock on the door. “Come in, Monsieur Valjean.” He called. “I am not yet hungry again, however.”

“It is actually Cosette.” She called back. “Am I still invited to enter?” She asked, her voice soft and sweet, and it was the first time Enjolras had heard it.

He hesitated, jealousy nearly getting the best of him, but he pushed it down. “Of course.” He answered, albeit a bit strained was his voice as he put down the book.

She came in, leaving the door open behind her. “How do you do, monsieur?” She greeted him. “A pleasure to meet you. Marius has spoken a great deal about you.” She said, though it wasn’t the truth. Marius had hardly spoken to her at all since he returned from the barricade. 

Enjolras nodded briefly at her and struggled to sit up properly against the headboard. 

“Let me help you.” She rushed to his side, but he held up a hand.

“I’m capable of sitting up.” He insisted, putting all of his weight on his uninjured arm and pushing himself up. By the time he was sitting up straight, he was short of breath and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. All he’d done was change his sitting position and it tired him out. He grunted in frustration and then returned his attention to her. “Where is Marius? He hasn’t been up since morning last.” He questioned. 

Cosette pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. “I haven’t seen him since last we ate.” She answered. “He’s been with me, other than that. I thought he visited you before bed. Did he not?”

He shook his head. “He did not.” And he wondered why Cosette would think so unless Marius had told her a lie. "I know not where he may be. You might check the cafe. He does like to have a drink on occasion. And he likes to have lots of drinks when he is not feeling well."

"Why wouldn't he be feeling well?" She inquired, he fragility more prominent than any other attribute she may have had. 

Enjolras looked at her in puzzlement. "Well he has seen all his friends fall dead. That tends to put a damper on one's mood." He was being short and crass. He knew that, and he didn't mean to be hurtful, it simply came across that way.   
Cosette looked at him for a moment more before looking out the small window on the wall opposite. "Perhaps he is out on his own. He might be on the roof." 

Enjolras started, and looked at her intently. "Why would he be on the roof?" 

"He sits on rooftops when he is feeling sorrowful." She whispered. "I suppose he wants to be alone. I won't bother him."


End file.
